


Watermarks

by summerstorm



Category: Attack the Block (2011)
Genre: F/M, Medical Kink (sort of), Mildly Dubious Consent, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:36:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstorm/pseuds/summerstorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Moses," Sam says, wide-eyed, when she opens the door. He must look worse than he thought, for her to sound this alarmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Watermarks

**Author's Note:**

> I'm fairly certain the right reaction to this movie isn't 'hm, I kind of want sex pollen fic', and in my defense it wasn't my only reaction to the movie. I loved the movie. I don't think you can watch Attack the Block and not. But at one point I wanted to write something and this was in my head and I... went ahead and put it into words. I'm sorry. Really I am. I'm appropriately ashamed of myself.

He's not even out of the flat when the headache starts, but then he figures it could be worse. He shouldn't even be here anyway. The time he spent in a cell was about enough to fix up the floor so he can walk in and not slip through to the flat below his, below the one that used to be his. His uncle's, technically. Moses hasn't seen his uncle since before the alien attack. He's not sure his uncle knows there was an alien attack—Moses's got an inkling the government got involved in his case, with all the witnesses and the dead alien someone thought to freeze up, Tia, he thinks, though she didn't reply when he thanked her, and a CCTV cam that somehow nobody'd busted yet when everything went down. 

Anyway the government got involved, and it hasn't been publicised much. Got a small segment in local news about an explosion and that's how Moses thinks they wrapped up his file, some freak accident he just happened to escape from. Makes no sense, not if you put it all together. Not if you look in where Moses used to live, all the blackened spaces, fine rubble and dust. 

Whoever cleaned up did a pretty poor job of it. They probably thought someone else would come along and finish up for them. And what did it matter if no one could live there, anyway. Some of the furniture is still around, skeleton metal and whatever the bath is made of, ugly and dirty and marred but still standing, stubborn like nothing else. Stubborn like him.

There's no real reason for him to be here other than to kill time, or just see what he left behind when he fled this place. If there was anything salvageable he'd have come here earlier, and it's been weeks since he was let go. Just sometimes they made even him question it, the story he was telling, in that moment between sleep and waking up properly. But it all happened. He doesn't need the evidence to remember it. Could hardly forget if he tried, and he does sometimes, he has.

He stumbles in the middle of what used to be his bedroom and leans against the bare wall, the column of it, shakes his head to shake it off. He needs to get out of here so he does, drags himself out to the lift and finds some pills for his head in his backpack while it takes him down. He sits on the floor while he waits. He's starting to sweat, and the air outside doesn't help none. He wriggles out of his jacket and shoves it into his pack. He looks at his watch, tells himself to give the drugs some time to get him off this. Shit, he hopes this isn't some weird late reaction to remembering what happened, some trauma thing or something. He's been crashing with Pest since he got out of the cell, it's not like he's distanced himself much.

He stretches a palm over his forehead and they're both so hot all he feels is dampness. His legs are giving again, and the lamppost he leans against serves more to cool down his arm than to stabilise him. Nearest hospital is—somewhere. Nearest hospital is far, the state he's in. Chances are he'll crash his bike if he takes it and if not, he'll crash somehow anyway, on his own legs.

He goes back inside and digs in his mind for Sam's apartment number. It's etched there like any other gruesome detail, even if he's only used the knowledge once, seen her twice since he got out, just the one time on purpose. But she's a nurse, and at the very least she'll have something better than paracetamol. Hell, wet towels would be an improvement at this point, and he knows Sam's stashed up her first aid kit since the alien thing, just in case. He's not sure why she hasn't fled the block altogether. Nothing's keeping her here like it keeps Moses and Pest and Biggz. She could go somewhere.

"Moses," Sam says, wide-eyed, when she opens the door. He must look worse than he thought, for her to sound this alarmed. "What's happened? Are you on _drugs_?"

He gives her as blank a look as he can manage and she shuts the door behind him. He's already collapsed on her couch by the time she's done with the locks. It—is pretty late, he supposes. Sam looks like she'd gone to bed in that tank top and pyjama bottoms, or was about to. Moses would be sorry except that he's more concerned with the unbearable heat flowing through his body.

"Like your new couch," he says. Mutters really. Least he's not bleeding. Sam wouldn't live where she lives if she could afford to buy a new couch every week. He doesn't say any of it, not least because Sam's hovering over him and he can see her stomach up her top. He didn't think he was attracted to her; considered it in passing, maybe, but he's sixteen and she's old enough to be a nurse and old enough to act like she's older and horribly affronted by his behaviour. There are some lines.

His body's not agreeing this time, and he realises with a start, his eyes going wide, that the aliens he blew up his flat to kill were in some sort of heat or something and fuck, that can't be what's happening. Someone would have said something, the blokes who patched up the floor, somebody.

They wouldn't have. They wouldn't have but someone would know, wouldn't they? Sam or Tia or someone. If this happened to somebody else, and it must have, unless the government got involved there too. They wouldn't stoop to construction work, except—for investigation purposes maybe. With masks and equipment and plastic bags.

"What the fuck did you take?" Sam says, louder this time, like he hasn't heard her already. She sits on the coffee table, leaning forward. He tries to look her in the eye but the top is too big for her, too low on her chest, and white and worn enough that her nipples are obvious through the fabric. Shit, he's getting hard. He'd be better off by the lamppost waiting for this to pass.

"Paracetamol," he says, and hears more than sees Sam's expression turn sour and frustrated, a little gasp like it's caused her personal offence that he's being difficult. "This how you treat all your patients, too, in hospital?"

"Moses," she says, like her patience is breaking, though Moses isn't sure there was ever much of it to begin with. From his experience, she's the type of girl who won't just hang tight while things happen, who needs to know how everything's going at every second and something to do with her hands, on top of that.

There's a remark about that at the back of his throat, but he's not fucked enough to actually say it.

Sam stands up and disappears into her bedroom, short, quick, plasticky steps as she goes and then comes back, holding a small folded towel and water in a bowl. Her hand is damp when she touches it to his forehead, and his eyes fly open, at the coolness of it or the contact or _something_ , something about it that makes his headache dissipate. Everything is clearer, everything is factual when he thinks of it, what's happening right now. Feels like whatever's happening to him won't last and won't hurt him, while it does. Won't even scar like the scratches did round his eye.

"You're not feverish," Sam mumbles. Sounds like it's a surprise, and he wonders if he was before she touched him or if he's just feeling things that don't translate to his body entirely. She shifts back and he swallows something that would've been a groan if he'd let it. His chest feels tight again, and he curls a hand round the edge of the couch so he won't reach out for her.

The wet towel doesn't do anything, for all that the water's cold, much colder than Sam's palm. His face feels less like it's going to go up in flames but the rest of him is unsettled, his stomach in knots, his legs wriggling against the arm of the couch.

"We need to get you to hospital," Sam says, and he musters enough strength to shake his head no, no way, so he has to convince more people that he's not on anything, that this is all probably something to do with aliens again? No way. "All right, but I can't help you if you don't tell me what's wrong," she replies, her voice increasingly frantic. Sounds fuzzy to his ears anyway, in the haze he's in. 

He attempts to sit up, propping himself up with a fist on the couch, and she seizes his shoulders to steady him until he's mostly upright, leaning back and somehow hunched over at the same time. His body can't seem to decide if it will be more comfortable against the back of the couch or bent over in half, taking up as little space as possible. Every other minute there's a stretch of five seconds or so where the panic and frenzy is all stripped away and all he can feel is embarrassment and all he wants to do is bury his head between his knees and never look anybody in the eye, or say another word to anyone. Starting with Sam.

There's a lucidness that comes from where Sam's fingers are brushing his arm, and he says, "I went to see the flat. The one I blew up. Got a headache there, got out. Keeps getting worse." She eyes him with something between curiosity and concern, her glance flicking all over his face. He breathes in deep, reminds himself he's a nurse and the only one he's going to get, and if this really has to do with aliens she's not going to be any help unless he helps her along. "Except when you're touching me," he grits out, and she takes her hands back instantly, and he doesn't have enough time to hold back from reacting to that, to the tightness inside him returning. Her hands come back, full on his arms now, under his sleeves. "Thanks." He lets his head fall back, soaks in the calm, even better now that it's deliberate, that she knows to hang on awhile.

Sam nods shakily. "Where does it hurt? Besides your head?" He shakes his head and she tries a different question. "Is it not pain? Is it something else?" He hears her breathe in, breathe like she's thinking on it, trying to guess so he'll confirm or deny. The thing is with the headache gone all he feels is every muscle tightening, but that's not strange, that's not alien, that's just being horny, all right, and he can't very well tell her that, not without her thinking it's some sick joke he's playing on her. "Oh, shit," she says, and at that he opens his eyes.

She's looking at him. She's looking down between them, looking down at him and his clothes were baggy enough to hide a semi but now the pain's gone and she's touching him and she's trying to find out what's wrong, they don't hide anything; he knows without checking himself that they don't. Her fingers are still touching him, but they're loose now, minimum contact, and he has no clue what to say so she won't let go of him, can't think of anything that won't make her let go faster.

"I can't believe this is happening to me," Sam says, and he shoots her a look. "To you. I know. I just can't believe it's fucking happening."

"What is?"

She presses her lips together and opens her mouth with a pop, and he tries to think about anything but that. Anything. "Just a theory now, but I haven't heard of this happening to anybody else who went up there so it's got to be something specific to you. The only thing specific to you is those scars."

"It's not like I can take them off," he says.

"No, of course not," she says quickly, "but the whole—those aliens were after—they were acting on biological instinct. To mate? That's how you lured them in there and if those scratches got some sort of alien—thing in your system, and the explosion didn't get rid of all the—bait, or neutralise it, if there—" She bites her lip, hard. It's not sexy at all but it's all he can see, her mouth on him. She swallows, and says, as professional as he's ever heard her, "Heat cycle."

"Fuck," he blurts. It's one thing to consider it vaguely in his head and another to have someone else suggest it as a real possibility.

"No, it can't be that bad," she says, a bit desperately. "You don't want to kill me, do you?" He looks at her, and whatever he conveys—he's just frustrated, at this point—makes her breathe in relief. "No, you just want to fuck me." She lets go to push her hair out of her face, but remembers halfway through and grabs his wrist with one hand, which is better than nothing. His head doesn't have time to try and kill him again. "A fifteen-year-old wants to fuck me, that's just. That's great."

He doesn't bother correcting her—he turned sixteen in a cell—because if he does, he'll wind up telling her she's the adult and the professional here and maybe she should act like she's not unhinged, for both their sakes. Probably wouldn't go over very well.

"All right, look," she says, nodding her head as if to reassure herself, "how about I go in my room, or you go in my room, I don't care, and I just—wait out here while you—" Really quickly, ripping off the words: "While you have a wank. If me touching your arms helps then maybe you touching your—self will too. Stands to reason, really."

"Does it," he says incredulously.

She swallows. "No. But I don't have any better suggestions, do you? That aren't traumatic for either of us? So I'm just—" Slowly, she drags her fingers off his wrist. The second they stop touching his skin, he shuts his eyes tight, and he must make some kind of noise because she's touching him again, a hand on his forearm and one over his knee, soothing even through fabric.

"Can't you—" There's no way to say this that's not weird as shit. He rubs a hand over his face, hoping she'll come up with it if he gives her five seconds. She's a fucking nurse. What do nurses do?

"You want me to take a look at it," she says, sounding forcefully neutral about it. "No, all right, that's reasonable. Moses. Look at me." He does. "It's fine. I don't think you're doing this to get back at me. It's reasonable to want to make sure everything's fine." Her hands rise from his body and he holds onto her wrist, stopping her for a second. She looks at him calmly, reassuringly, and moves again to open his trousers. The edges of her palms brush his cock and it's agonizing, and worse even when they stop, when her hands move to his thighs and she says, "Lift your hips," so she can drag down his trousers. He tries to control his breathing, the heaving of his stomach, the rising temperature of his skin. He's not burning like he was before, off pain and desperation, but heat is still leaving his body in waves. "Do you want to take off your shirt? If you'll be more comfortable or—"

He shakes his head slowly, just once. It's not about being naked—though that's both an appealing thought and a horrifying one, all at once, under these circumstances—but about letting go of Sam's wrists long enough to pull his shirt over his head. He can't. He can't let go. He toes off his shoes instead.

"All right, Moses, come on," she goes on, her fingers touching down on his hips, curling around the waistband of his boxers. He tightens his hold on her unconsciously, stopping her even though this was his idea, even though he asked her to do this. "Breathe," she instructs, and he does, deep inhales and longer exhales, forcing his fingers loose. 

She goes slowly and keeps her eyes on his face, but he doesn't have any more outbursts, not even when she yanks his trousers and boxers off his bare feet, leaving him properly naked from the waist down with his clothes out of arm's reach. She's a nurse, she's a nurse, he thinks, trying to internalise that context, not that it helps any more than he expected it to. 

"You look fine to me," she says awkwardly, and he opens his eyes. He didn't realise he'd closed them. He's rock hard, his cock leaning toward his stomach, full and wet at the tip. It looks fine. It does look fine. "I think you'll know if it feels right more than I will though," Sam adds. "We're not following any sort of real medical procedure so—"

He squeezes her wrists so she'll stop talking, just give him a second to process. He should ask her to leave, he wants to ask her to leave, but he's increasingly aware that he should just have said yes when she suggested he jack off in her room because even the thought of not being in contact with her now makes sharp pain flare behind his temples.

Her hands are flailing above his knees at weird angles, and she must notice because next thing he knows they're coming down slowly on his thighs, as close to his knees as she can while letting him hold her wrists. He lets go then, not without difficulty, and she squeezes his thighs a bit with just her thumbs and first two fingers of each hand.

Yeah. Yes. He's got to do something eventually. This is the longest it's ever taken him to lay a hand on his dick, because he's scared it _won't_ help and because Sam is watching him, because she probably thinks it'd be insulting or something if she stayed here and pretended she isn't, which she's got right on some level. It's just touching, just touching to make sure everything is fine and everything feels fine—and it does. 

It's a huge relief and he doesn't even know why, considering he doesn't feel any better with a hand wrapped round his cock than he did before. He tightens his fingers and gives his cock a jerk, tries to—tries to stroke himself but he can't, he freezes in place with Sam watching him.

"I can't be touching you and not be here at the same time, Moses," she says, almost pleading with him. "Just do it."

He tries again, slow strokes to get used to it, unable to look anywhere but at her, the weird look on her face, the trickle of sweat down her neck, down her cleavage. He wants to see her top off but he feels gross even thinking of asking a girl to show him her tits, just like that, when she doesn't want to and isn't getting anything out of the deal. "It's not helping," he hisses, and she squeezes his thighs again, but doesn't stop there—her hands shift a little higher and it's a bit better, makes his cock twitch in his hand.

"You've got to commit to it," she says, the words as foreign to hear as they seem to be for her to say. He's still holding one of her wrists, and it's easier, somehow, to move that hand, to drag it along her forearm and down again, safe places to touch. He tugs at her wrist, unconsciously at first, but he doesn't stop when he notices, and she swallows audibly, licks her dry lips. "Fine," she mumbles, almost too low to hear, "fine," biting her lip now, and he brings her hand to his cock, sighs loudly at the first touch. She leans forward even further, and he lets go of her entirely, reminds himself he can't touch her even if she's within reach. "Fucking Christ," she blurts, her hand gaining confidence as she strokes his cock, and all of a sudden it stops, she stops, and he reaches forward before he realises she's pulling off her top, the fabric sticking to her skin. She says, "Shut up," when she's done and touches him again, her tits pressing together between her upper arms, the way she's leaning into him. "Look, just touch me if you want," she says, and he remembers what she just said, and throws it back at her.

"Commit to it," is what he says, doubtful, questioningly, hoping she'll give him clear instructions because he's not clearheaded enough to figure them out himself.

The hand touching his thigh gets hold of one of his and plants it on her tit, no preamble. He'd be an idiot to say no to that; he palms her chest, catches her nipple between his fingers. She gasps at the pressure and something in him just clicks and he comes on the spot, all over her fist and his stomach. He's still hard and he still feels flustered, the heat still at home in him, but as long as Sam's touching him it seems manageable, it spreads like something more intense than he could consider normal instead of like a sickness.

"This isn't working," Sam says, wiping her hand on his ribs before standing, keeping contact as she goes—her knees knocking against his, her fingers skating along his chest, settling on his shoulder when she's risen to her full height. He curls a hand around her waist and tries to keep it neutral, to not drag her close or grasp as hard as he'd like. More than one person—strangers, all of them—has told him in his life that he doesn't know his strength, but he does know it. He's got little else for leverage—some loyalty, some kind of leadership skills, and he's not stupid. But there's not always time or reason to use those things.

"You look great half-naked," he tells her, and she says, "Oh, great, thanks. Always wanted to hear that from a fifteen-year-old boy," all the while massaging her scalp and looking round the flat.

He clears his throat. He's got half a mind to apologise to her, but this isn't _actually_ his fault, and he's always been awful at saying he's sorry. He's not proud of everything he does but he's got reasons for it, he thinks it through. Sincerity's hard to come by like that. So instead he says, "I turned sixteen earlier this month." Before she can interject that that doesn't help, he adds, "You told me I looked older."

She looks down at him then, and sighs. "I did, didn't I." The set of her mouth softens, and her eyes are half-lidded, though he can't tell if it's from exhaustion—he did wake her up—or something else. "Fuck," she mutters, throwing her head back, the line of her neck exposed and making his mouth tingle with the need to bite her. Not bite like—it's not an alien thing, it's a him thing. He's confident about this one. He strokes her hipbone with his thumb and she lets him for about two seconds before gripping his wrist. "Fuck, okay. Get up." She pulls at his wrist and he just blinks at her. "Are you still too dizzy to move?"

His legs feel like lead when he tries to lift them, but no, not that lightheaded, not while he's touching her. He props a fist up on the arm of the couch to lift himself to his feet, and before he knows it he's in her bedroom, having followed her just by touch. She backs him into her bed, the back of his knees hitting the mattress, and presses her entire body to his, which is so out of the blue he groans, loud, his breathing jumping out of control.

She peels off his shirt smoothly, efficiently, and wipes his stomach with it before tossing it on the floor. "All right," she says. Her voice isn't calm, not by any stretch, but it still sounds like she's trying something out, going through theories in her head in a way Moses hasn't been able to since she first laid a hand on his cock. His hands find her hips and grasp harder than he means to, too busy telling himself he can't push her remaining clothes down. "I think," she says, her voice hoarse. "I think only way we're going to accomplish anything is if you—if you do commit to it. If it's instinct, right, if it's instinct then it's not going to be satisfied by whatever compromise I—I allow." She takes a deep breath, sighs again. Her tits press against his bare chest, her nipples hard and pebbly.

"And you're okay with it?"

She rolls her eyes. "Not _okay_ with it but I'd like you to not die and I'm not—" She swallows, and then shakes her head, shrugs. "I'm not entirely without ulterior motives, all right? You do look a bit older and I've seen you put your life in danger to save other people, and that's. I'm not made of fucking stone and if you say a word about this I will—I will hurt you. I can do it. Just have to walk out of here, don't I, with the state you're in?" She takes enough steps back to break contact with him, to scare his breath into catching and his legs into motion. 

He grabs hold of her waistband and drags her close, sits on the edge of her bed with her standing between his legs. She's as good as given him permission and he's too keyed up to play with it; all he can do is take it one step at a time, but once he settles on the next one it's quick: yanking down the remainder of her clothes, telling her to step out of them when they pool round her feet. The only sign she's embarrassed or uncomfortable is how still she is. "You could cooperate, you know," he says, and hopes she hears it as a suggestion and not the near command it sounded like.

Reluctant fingers over his collarbone, then, soft in a way that only makes him want more. He stands and steps around her, pressing his chest to her back, ducking his head to kiss her neck. She makes a little surprised sound and clears her throat. "This isn't going on instinct, Moses," she says, and he tightens his fingers on her hips before sliding a hand up to her chest.

"I know what I want," he says, and she nods a little.

"There are condoms in the second drawer," she points out, "under—uh, under, there's a purple bra, under there," and leans back against him when he touches her stomach, like her legs won't hold her upright. Well, now she knows what he's feeling. Some fraction of it anyway. Her eyes are closed and for all her awkwardness, her body is loose and relaxed. He didn't expect that. "You can ask," she whispers, "if you want something, you can ask. What do you want?"

He gives himself a moment to think it over. She's so pliant, all the sharp angles of her body soft under his hands. She rolls her hips back when he lets himself rub up against her arse, and it's—all right, he does know what he wants. "Lie down," he says, and as an afterthought, "please. On your back." She's not very graceful about it and something about watching her distracts her from the pain flaring up in his stomach at the loss of contact. He climbs up after her and leans in before he can think better of it, kisses her until both her arms and legs are wrapped around him, his cock pressed against her stomach. He breaks away to speak, closes his eyes to calm down, to steel himself and soften the look on his face. "I want you to go down on me, can you do that?"

"Yes," she says, her eyes widening slightly, but it's not fear, it's—it's want, just like it's want the way she's grabbing his arse and urging him to climb up her body. He has no idea how somebody can go from being incredibly freaked out to _this_ but he doesn't question it, doesn't say anything because that's what she told him to do, and he doesn't know if he could even go through with it if she was acting some other way, if she was being unresponsive. This is actually—it's fulfilling, in a way his orgasm earlier didn't even come close to.

He was going to flip them over, but Sam doesn't make any signs that she wants that and this is better, for him, too, holding onto her headboard, his knees on either side of her shoulders and his cock bumping against her lips. They open easily for him and he guides his cock inside her mouth, watches as wet heat surrounds him. She keeps her hands on the back of his thighs, but doesn't stop him when he rocks his hips into it, encourages him instead, sucks and licks and moans around him sometimes, the bed creaking when her body arches off of it. Nobody's ever reacted like this to sucking him off before. All it takes is her nails digging into his thighs as she moans with the head of his cock just brushing her lips for him to come again, this time in her mouth. She coughs once and then swallows like she's not even surprised, and he feels a wave of embarrassment, feels exposed all of a sudden by the way she's trusting him—and by the way he's completely naked. 

He hides the way he's feeling in her neck, her collarbone, sliding down her body and biting lightly as he goes. He sucks on her nipples until she's whimpering, her hips rocking into him, permanently off the mattress. His body was starting to cool down, but her responses—the rise and fall of her belly, the way she spreads her legs further and further—warm him up again, in a way that's much less scary than before, much more familiar. He keeps going before he realises what that means, licks a line from Sam's navel down to her cunt before it occurs to him he could let her off the hook now, offer it at least. Thing is her fingertips are scraping at his head and her stomach is gleaming with sweat, and she's so wet, so close she cries out the second his tongue touches her clit, her entire body shaking as she comes. She pretty much deflates afterward, breathing fast, and seems relieved when he lifts his head, though he would've liked to lick at her a while longer.

"Shit, Moses," she says, and laughs, a high-pitched thing he would have found funny under different circumstances. He's still touching her, hands light on her thighs, but she's not anymore, and he should try—he lifts his hands, stands off the bed even. He feels fine. "Is it out of your system?"

"Think it was before you—I thought it wouldn't be fair if I just stopped," he says, and to his surprise she just nods and answers, "Yeah, thanks," with only a minimum amount of sarcasm in it.

He sits on the edge of the bed with his hands between his knees. His clothes are all on the other side of the door he's facing, and he's not sure if the—the thing is going to flare up again or if it's really done for good.

The mattress dips, and then there's a hand on his shoulder, a knee brushing against his lower back. He looks back to Sam resting her forehead on her wrist. Her breath is cool on his arm when she sighs. She sounds tired—hell, she sounds exhausted. She may have been sleeping when he banged on her door. Now that he's a bit more clear-headed he realises that he had to _bang on her door_ , so that's probably about right. 

"You can stay here if you want," she says, her voice dragging, "or in case it's not all over, or—" She shifts away and covers her mouth, yawning. "Don't want you to freak out on anybody else if it isn't." She gives his back an awkward pat. "I've got an early shift tomorrow, though. I need to get to sleep." She sighs again and crawls away, pulling back the sheets and getting under them. Her head hits the pillow with a soft rustle, and she groans at that. "You know your way round the flat anyway." Her breathing is steady now, sleepy. There's frustration in the way she speaks, but it's the closest to normal he's ever seen her, given how they met and everything. 

He stays silent for a few seconds. He should find his phone, find his clothes. He's not leaving; she's right, he doesn't want to involve anybody else in this. It's bad enough he put Sam through it. He does feel back to normal, except for the fact that he's sitting naked on somebody's bed, and he tries to think about what would've happened if he'd gone to somebody else for help and comes up blank. "Thanks," he says, quietly. She makes a noise to acknowledge it, and the sheets rustle as she turns in them.

Fucking aliens, man. Screwing him over from beyond the grave. 

Sam groans and says, "You're making me nervous," slurring her words a little, but not so much that he can't understand her. "I'm fine. You can make this up to me by not catching frostbite."

He looks back at her. She's lying on her side, and she opens one eye while he's still looking. Her eyebrow rises a bit. It's impressive how pointed it is, for someone who's half asleep already. He nods, watches her close her eyes again, and gets up to go find his clothes.


End file.
